


A Whiter Shade of Pale

by Peanut_McNut



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dean/Castiel - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Spoilers up to season 10
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-23 21:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7481253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peanut_McNut/pseuds/Peanut_McNut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an apparent serial killer descends on the sleepy, rural town of White Oak, twenty-year-old Dean Winchester teams up with the new local doctor to save their adopted hometown from more bloodshed. As the body count rises, accusations fly, and Dean finds himself questioning his loyalties as well as his sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn't going to seem canon compliant, but it will be. We're just taking a bit of a detour to get there. Spoilers up through season 10 to be on the safe side. Thanks for reading and reviews/kudos/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!

He doesn’t remember how he got here.

“Dean, come on,” Sam says, tugging on the sleeve of Dean’s leather jacket, insistent.

His fifteen-year-old little brother leads the way through the glass doors of the post office. Dean yells at him to slow down as Sam almost bowls over an older man who’d been stooping to get his mail.

“Sorry, sir,” Sam says to the man, giving him an apologetic smile.

The man nods at him, looking to Dean with a grin as he straightens up, “Must be something special waiting for him.”

“I hope so,” Dean says, stepping aside to allow the man through.

Bells hanging above the door jingle as the old man leaves. Dean stands behind Sam, watching him twist and turn the old style combination lock. Tongue poking out in concentration, Sam looks back at Dean when it clicks and the door swings open. His hand reaches in, exploring the confines of the small metal box. Sam’s face falls when it comes back empty.

“I really thought there’d be something today,” Sam says, closing the box and giving the dial a halfhearted twirl.

“It just got lost,” Dean says, trying to sound upbeat, “Dad’s letter might be floating around somewhere in Alaska right now, making it’s away back here.”

“Sure, Dean,” Sam says as they head out of the post office and into the bright sunshine, a cold January wind smacking them in the face.

“Maybe a polar bear ate it,” Dean says, trying to get a rise out of Sam.

“They don’t have polar bears in Alaska,” Sam says, voice as somber as before.

Dean hates that his little brother sounds as exhausted as Dean feels. All the other days they’ve stopped to check the box, it had been enough for Dean to explain away the lack of communication from their father on a mess up with the mail or that Dad was busy hunting. Sam, though still disappointed and worried, would always perk back up. He’d been willing to go along with Dean’s little game of make believe. But days and weeks rolled into slow moving months and they haven’t heard one thing from Dad. The jig is up, at least for Sam.

Dean isn’t worried about Dad. Not as much as Sam is. Dad has left them hanging for months on end without dropping a line or making a phone call before. Sam was too young to remember the first time. Dad had left them at Bobby’s before the start of Dean’s second semester of first grade. He’d told Bobby to sign Dean up for school and that he’d be gone for a while, but he’d be back before the end of the school year.

Summer had came and went without any word from Dad. Bobby had already taken Dean shopping for school supplies for the start of second grade. He’d even let Dean pick everything out. Batman as far as the eye could see. Sammy had been allowed to pick out some stuff too, since Bobby had enrolled him in preschool. Dean had helped him, weighing the pros and cons of each of Sam’s possible choices. In the end, Sam picked a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle themed backpack, notebook, and pencils to go with the crayons, glue, and all the other boring stuff kids have to take to school.

Bobby had them up and ready to go early for the first day of classes, both of them walking Dean out to the end of Bobby’s driveway so he could catch the bus. His little brother had insisted on wearing his new backpack out, even though Bobby would be driving Sam to preschool later in the morning. Sam had insisted, telling Bobby that he wanted to practice for when it was his turn to ride. Sam had been amazed by the big yellow bus the school year before, dragging Bobby out to the end of the driveway to watch it as it had carried Dean off and dropped him back home everyday.

Both boys had kept an anxious eye out for the bus to come. They’d get excited whenever they saw dust kicking up along the South Dakota back road, gravel crunching under tires as a car or a truck passed. They were so sure it had to be the bus after the fourth vehicle, watching the dust cloud engulf whatever was dipping down the hill before Bobby’s driveway. Instead of the bus, they watched as the Impala came barreling down the road, cresting over the rise of the hill. Dad had looked surprised to see them standing out there, like he’d thought they’d somehow knew he was coming and they had decided to wait for him by the road. The thought that school was starting again had never crossed his mind.

Bobby tried to persuade Dad to let the boys stick around Sioux Falls. He’d argued that they’d do better staying in one school system instead of bouncing from place to place. Dad wouldn’t hear of it. Dean had thrown an absolute fit. While he’d missed his dad desperately, Dean hadn’t wanted to leave the friends he had made. He’d been excited about his new teacher and his new classroom. They’d already seen it the night before when the school had held an open house. He had his name taped to his desk and his own locker. It was everything a second grader could want from school.

It was the first and last tantrum Dean remembers ever throwing in his father’s presence. Dad’s reaction had been enough to keep Dean in line for years to come. In minutes, Dad had packed the boys’ stuff up and took them away from Bobby’s. They had passed Dean’s school bus on the way out of Sioux Falls. It would be three weeks before Dean got signed up at another school. It left him feeling like he was out of place and too far behind his classmates. He never did catch back up.

Looking down at Sam now, trudging along next to him, eyes downcast, Dean thinks Bobby was probably right about the switching schools thing. Dean had come to the conclusion long ago that school was never going to be for him, whether he wanted it to be or not. Trying to start over from scratch in a new place had taken a toll on Dean. Sam, on the other hand, lived for school no matter what the circumstances. As long as there was learning involved, Sam was all in.

Still the moving around was hard, so when Dean had been old enough to keep Sammy safe and take care of him on his own, he’d talked Dad into letting them stay while he took off on hunts nearby as often as he could. He might be gone for a couple of weeks or a month, but all that time Sam got to stay in one place. When Dean could manage, he negotiated for longer. It had cut down on the number of times Sam had been ripped out of school by a substantial amount, especially compared to Dean, but it was still hard on him every time they had to leave. Dad didn’t know that. Dad never saw that part of it. The tears and the silence. It had always fallen to Dean to try to make it better for Sam. He was always left to pick up the pieces.

Four months ago Dad had tossed Dean the keys to the Impala and told him to sign Sam up for school. He’d said he’d be gone awhile, but he’d be back soon. Dean had known then that they’d be lucky if he was back by Christmas, and as usual, luck wasn't on their side. Dean had moved him and his brother out of the motel a week after Dad left, finding an apartment to rent above the general store/bar in the small rural town they’d found themselves stuck in. If they were going to be here, Sam might as well have a real home to come back to after school was done for the day.

Dean had gotten a job at the auto body shop a few streets down from their apartment and filled the place with enough hand-me-down furniture to make it look like a home. Dean’s schedule worked out so that he could walk Sam to school and be waiting on the corner near the shop, about a block an a half away, when his little brother got out. Dean was shocked at how quick they’d fallen into a standard pattern of living for most normal people. They assimilated into the town of White Oak like they’d always belonged there. The place is like a damn postcard it’s so quaint. If it wasn’t for the post office box, things would be great.

The post office was on their way back to the apartment, and Sam had taken to making them stop as often as Dean would allow. For Dean, it loomed like a specter waiting to ambush them everyday as they passed by. Dad had made Dean rent the damn thing in case he needed to send them anything. Dean held no illusions that he ever would, but Sammy had latched on to it. As much as they butted heads, Sam loved Dad and he would be worrying about him until he pulled up in the new truck he’d bought less than a year ago to drag them along to another state. Towards another hunt.

“What do you want for dinner?” Dean asks, trying to distract Sam.

“Don’t care. Whatever’s fine.”

“How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Did you get your test back in math?”

“Yeah.”

“Well?” Dean asks, pressing him when it becomes clear that Sam isn’t going to elaborate without prompting.

“I got an A.”

“That’s awesome, Sam!”

Sam shrugs. The wooden steps that run along the side of the white, vinyl sided building that lead up to their apartment are within sight as they cross the street. The building is on the older side, but the location to work and school plus the whole being above a place that served food and beer was convenient as hell. The closest store or bar was at least 20 miles out of town and neither were much bigger than this place. Everything as far as the eye could see was the picture of an old-timey, midwestern rural town circa 1950 and Dean could get used to living in a place like this. Eventually.

“Got any homework?”

“No.”

“Throw me a bone here, Sammy, come on.”

“I’m sorry Dean. I just — I can’t believe he hasn’t tried to get ahold of us. Not once. Doesn’t he care?”

“Sammy, ‘course he does. He’s probably —”

“Busy, yeah I know,” Sam says, almost spiting the word out.

Dean doesn’t know what to say. His little brother is angry, and he’s got a right to be. Sam isn’t stupid. He knows they don’t lead normal lives. Hell, it’d be one thing if they just moved around a lot, but throw in the monster and the demon hunting thing...

“How about we order a pizza from downstairs tonight?”

Sam looks at him, “It’s Wednesday.”

Pizza on Friday nights and watching some crap movie on TV had become a special thing with them. It was something to look forward to as they both trudged through their respective weeks and a good kick start to their weekend. Dean didn’t make tons of money at the auto shop. Almost all of it went towards rent and other bills, plus socking some away in a rainy day fund. It left them with a little bit of spending money, most of which Dean blew on fun days out with Sam on the weekends or the occasional pizza.

“I know,” Dean says, “I’m sure the pizza’s just a good on Wednesday night.”

Sam gives him a small smile and Dean counts that as a victory. They head upstairs, Sam dropping his book bag on the floor near the door for tomorrow while Dean heads to the bathroom, too dirty from work to sit anywhere without making a mess. He tells Sam to call downstairs before heading in to take a quick shower.

Running a hand through his still wet hair, leaving it mussed and spiked, Dean walks down the stairs fifteen minutes later, ducking into the bar to pick up their pizza. He comes to a stop at the bar, grinning at Joe, the owner, who’s hustling to keep up with the other patrons. The heavyset man, wipes at his brow with a rag before tucking it into the back of his jeans, his bald head gleaming even in the dim bar lights. The place is hopping for the middle of the week, especially this early. Then again, there isn’t much to do in the dead of winter in the middle of nowhere other than drink.

“Franny is backed up in the kitchen, Dean,” Joe says, catching sight of him, “It’s going to be a few.”

“No problem,” Dean says, accepting the Coke Joe sits in front of him as a thank you for waiting without complaint.

Joe knows Dean is underage, at least as far as alcohol goes, but Dean doesn’t look it and this far out in the boonies, the rules are a little more relaxed about letting underaged people hang out the in bar area. Dean has seen kids as young as four or five running around in here while their parents drink and make merry.

Dean says hello, exchanging small talk with the locals sitting close enough to him. He waves at the ones that are too far away. After so many months, he’s gotten to know quite a few of them. Between working at the only garage in a thirty mile radius and living above the most popular drinking spot in town, it’s kind of hard not to.

The atmosphere reminds him of what falling into an episode of ‘Cheers’ would be like. Everyone really does know your name here. And your business. If Dean has learned anything crisscrossing the country for most of his life, it’s that small towns have any soap opera on TV beat. The Winchesters have become adept at flying as much under the radar as possible in places like these. So far, Dean and Sam have managed just fine. In someways, they’ve even been brought into the fold. Dean chalks that up to Sam. He has that innocent, puppy dog look going for him. It works like a charm every time.

When the others turn back to their own conversations, Dean lets his gaze wander around the room while he waits, his eyes falling on someone he hasn’t seen before. A man sits alone at a table, nursing a beer. If Dean had to guess, he looks to be in his early thirties, though the way he carries himself makes him come off older. Back straight, one hand wrapped around his beer bottle while the other one rests on the table. It gives him the appearance of ease, but it’s practiced, like he has to work at being casual.

The locals don’t seem to pay him much mind. Either the guy is from around here or he’s been deemed too boring to be paid much attention. Dean can’t imagine it’s the second one. The dude is easily the most attractive person in the place. His unruly black hair, a couple of inches longer than Dean’s, sticks out at odd angles. He’s wearing a blue sweater and black jeans, which seems wrong on the guy, even if the color of his sweater helps to bring out the blues of his eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s been staring until the guy catches him at it, returning his gaze. He should feel embarrassed, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t do the sensible thing and break eye contact either. For that, Dean doesn’t have an explanation.

“Dean?” Joe asks, leaning in towards him to get his attention, the man’s breath smelling of cigarettes and whiskey.

Dean jerks, tearing his eyes way from the stranger, “Yeah, sorry. What?”

“I’ve got your pizza here,” Joe says, chuckling as he pushes the box across the bar, “Where were you?”

“I was just —” Dean starts to say as he puts some cash down on the bar, but stops when he glances back towards the table where the guy is sitting.

The stranger is gone, but his beer bottle is still there. Dean glances around the place. The guy must have headed into the bathroom or something.

“You were just what?”

Flustered, Dean turns back to Joe, shaking it off, “Nothing. Just spacing out.”

“Long day at work?”

“Guess so. Thanks Joe,” Dean says, standing as he picks up the pizza box, “Give Franny my best.”

Dean waves at the crowd as he exits the bar, making his way back up the steps to the apartment and warmth and Sam.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s one week to the day before Sam starts hounding Dean about his birthday. Sam likes to celebrate stuff. Hell, they’d even done Christmas up right this year since they’d been stationed in one spot and had some extra cash. Dean had found a little artificial tree and they’d hung stockings on the doorknobs of their bedrooms as a stand in for a fireplace mantel. They’d done it all.

Dean was fine celebrating holidays for Sam’s benefit. If anything, he enjoyed watching Sammy relish in the festivities. When it came to birthdays, Dean had always made sure Sam had a good time on his, but he’d be much happier to just let his own slide right on by. Being singled out has never been his thing.

That fact has never phased Sam, however. His little brother drags him out that Thursday night, pushing Dean into the Impala and telling him where to drive. They head to the next town over. They play games at the arcade and catch a movie before heading for dinner. No muss, no birthday fuss. It could be any other night. Dean finds himself relaxing, which was his first big mistake.

Somehow Sam manages to tell their waitress at Biggerson’s that it’s Dean’s birthday without him catching on. He gets one of those tiny, free brownie sundaes while the entire staff sings loud and off key as they gather around the table. Sam is beaming, triumphant as he sings along. The whole restaurant is staring at them. A few of the other patrons even join in. The whole thing is embarrassing. Dean would love to sink under the table and disappear until they all leave. Instead he puts on a winning smile, gritting his teeth until it’s all over.

“I’m going to kill you,” Dean says, as the crowd disperses.

“Whatever,” Sam says, snagging a spoon to help Dean eat his sundae, “It’s your birthday. Embarrassing stuff is mandatory.”

“Who gave you permission to eat my dessert? I sat through that damn song, I earned this thing,” Dean says, mock fighting Sam over the glass bowl.

Sam grins at him, pulling it more towards him, some fudge still in his teeth as their spoons do battle, clanking against the bowl until every last drop is gone. It doesn’t take long, considering the thing is only meant for one person, and Dean lets Sam have most of it. By the time they make it back to the apartment, Dean has forgiven his little brother for his birthday trick. He reconsiders that stance when Sam blocks the door, flinging his arms wide to stop Dean from entering.

“Wait! Stay here,” Sam says, pushing through the door and leaving Dean standing on the deck outside.

In the summer, the big wooden deck would be fun to hang out on. Maybe do a little grilling and have some friends over. As it is, snow fell last night. Not tons, but enough to leave a light dusting over everything. Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Come on, Sam, it’s cold.”

“Hold on!” Sam calls from inside the apartment.

Dean hears the slam of drawers in the kitchen, “Dude, seriously, it’s like negative degrees out here.”

“OK! You can come in.”

Dean shakes his head as he darts in and closes the door behind him. He toes out of his boots, leaving them next to the door so he doesn’t drag snow through the apartment. Sam, in his haste, had forgotten to do the same. Dean rolls his eyes as he follows the wet shoe prints to the kitchen, rubbing his hands together to try to get some warmth back into them.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Sam says, smiling as he holds out an apple pie with a candle sitting in the middle of it, the flame already lit.

Dean can’t help but smile at him, “Birthday pie, huh?”

“It’s your favorite.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I made it,” Sam says, proud.

Dean raises his eyebrows. His little brother is talented at many things, but cooking and baking don’t make the list. If it wasn’t for the microwave and Dean’s cooking, Sam would probably starve.

“Franny helped,” Sam says, with a shrug, “A little.”

“At least we know it’s edible then.”

“Hey!”

“Just kidding, Sammy,” Dean says, pulling off his leather coat and putting it over one of the table chairs, “This is awesome. Thanks.”

Sam sits the pie down on the table near him, “Well, make a wish.”

Trying to get something by wishing for it is a fool’s errand at best, and Winchester luck is notoriously bad. The only thing Dean can think to wish for is that Dad is safe wherever he is and that the happiness Sam has watching him blow out his candle stays with him for the rest of the year. Dean would be good just having that.

***

The next night Sam ditches Dean for a slumber party. Sam had told him more than once that it was a _sleepover_ , but Dean couldn’t help teasing him. He’s glad Sam has made friends here. It’s good for him to hang out with people his own age. His buddy, Jeff, lives just two blocks up the road, so Dean doesn’t feel too concerned about Sam’s safety. Besides, Jeff has been over to their place a number of times and Dean knows his parents from seeing them around town and at different school functions.

Happy as he is for his little brother to get out, it leaves Dean rudderless on what would have been their traditional Friday night movie and pizza extravaganza. It’s weird being alone. He has spent most of his life sleeping in cramped quarters with his brother and his father, crashing in motel room after moldy motel room. Having all this space to himself makes Dean antsy. He thinks about going out. There’s a bar a few towns over that will serve him beer. No one knows him there and it’s not like he doesn’t have an arsenal of fake IDs at his disposal waiting for him in the trunk of the Impala.

He nixes that idea with one glance out the window. It’s snowing. The white stuff falls in huge flakes, the inches piling up fast. Besides, if he wants a beer, it’s not like Joe won’t serve him downstairs. Dean had added a couple years to his age when he rented the apartment from Joe. He got the feeling the guy didn’t believe Dean was 22, but he never said anything and they both have let it slide since.

Dean heads downstairs. The bar is light on customers, especially for a Friday. The snow must have been as much of a deterrent for most of the regulars as it was for Dean. There’s some people riding the stools at the other end of the bar, talking quietly amongst themselves. Joe is sitting on a stool behind the bar, playing poker with two guys at the corner closest to the door.

Dean heads to the back, giving a Joe a wave as he makes his way through. He stops at the kitchen door, calling to Franny. She’s a tall, imposing woman. Her stringy, graying brown hair is falling out of a messy bun perched on the back of her head. Gruff and loud, she seems to take up more space than she actually does. Rough as she is, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever met a nicer person. She grins at Dean as she wipes her hands on her stained apron, coming over to him.

“Braved those rickety steps to come see us, did you?”

“Just for you, Franny,” Dean says with a wink.

Franny huffs, looking beyond him, “Did your shadow take the night off?”

“Sam’s spending the night at a friend’s house.”

“Came to see me indeed,” Franny says, giving him a knowing look, “A good looking boy like you couldn’t scrounge up something better to do than hang around down here?”

“This is about as far as I want to go tonight.”

“You’ve got a point there. It’s nasty out. Not fit for man nor beast, though try to tell that to the lot out there,” Franny says, gesturing to the customers in the bar, “You’d think they’d have enough sense to stay home tonight.”

Dean’s eyes wander over them, “Looks like most of them live in town. At least they don’t have far to go.”

Franny included. Her house is right next door.

“I’d much prefer to be snug and warm in my own home, thank you very much.”

Dean holds up his hands, “Can’t argue with that.”

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” Franny asks, taking out a pad and a pen.

Dean orders a bacon cheeseburger and some fries. Joe hands him a soda without looking up from the cards he has in his other hand as Dean passes, looking for a place to sit. He thinks about getting in on the game, but decides to take a seat at a corner table with a good view of the barroom. He watches a basketball game playing on the TV positioned above Joe’s head until Franny comes out with his food.

While Dean’s eating, some of the customers get up to leave. Dean glances at them as they head out the door. They smile and nod at him as they go. He gives them a small wave before returning to his food. It’s not until he’s almost done with his burger that he looks back up at the bar at large. Joe is still playing cards with the same two guys. There’s still a group of sitting at the middle of the bar, now down to three, their backs to Dean. And at the far end sits the guy with the black hair.

It’s like déjà vu. Same outfit. Same kind of beer in his hand. Same eyes staring Dean down. Dean swallows the bite of burger he’d been chewing. The food goes down hard, almost getting stuck in his throat. He wipes his hands on his napkin, eyes never leaving the guy. He isn’t sure what this dude’s deal is, but Dean can do the stare down thing too. Minutes pass.

It isn’t a surprise when the man stands and heads towards Dean. There’s a level of control in his movements. A gracefulness. The man comes to a stop in front of him. They study each other. Dean refuses to be the first one to speak.

“May I sit?”

And wow, that was not the voice he was expecting. It’s low. Lower than it has any right to be coming from the slender man who looks to be a few inches shorter than Dean is, if he was standing. There’s a warmth in his eyes as he waits for Dean’s answer. It matches the tone in his voice despite the rough, almost growl.

“Sure,” Dean says, scooting his mess of napkins and the ketchup bottle Franny had left out of the guy’s way.

The man sits down, placing his beer on the table before folding his hands in his lap. If Dean thought the scrutiny was bad from across the room, it’s even worse up close.

“So uh, having a good night?” Dean asks, the guy leaving him off kilter.

“I’ve had worse.”

Dean has no idea what to say to that. It’s clear to him that this guy has little to no practice when it comes to small talk.

“What’s your name?”

“Castiel.”

“Wow. Who the hell gave you that?”

“My father.”

“Your dad’s kind of a dick, huh?”

Dean isn’t sure why he says it. He’s about to apologize for his mouth running ahead of his brain, but Castiel smirks at him.

“Among other things.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean --”

“It’s not the first time I’ve heard such sentiments, Dean,” Castiel says, waving him off.

“You know my name?” Dean asks, trying not to let his surprise show.

“Word travels fast through small towns.”

“People talk about me?”

Dean tries to keep his fidgeting to a minimum. For a hunter, even one on a temporary hiatus, the general population noticing his presence more than any other run of the mill civilian is a cause for concern.

“Everyone talks about everyone,” Castiel says, voice dry, “especially when they’re new.”

“New-ish. I’ve been here for a while now,” Dean says, relaxing slightly as he watches Castiel take a swig of his beer, “I can’t say I’ve seen you before. You from around here?”

“Not originally, no. I’ve been here for a few weeks.”

“Then where are you from?” Dean asks, leaning back as he picks up a fry, “Originally?”

“A little bit of everywhere. I travel a lot,” Castiel says after a pause.

“If you travel a lot,” Dean says, pushing his basket of fries towards Castiel, watching him, “what has you stuck in a backwater like White Oak?”

Castiel takes one of them, dipping it in the ketchup before taking a bite. His eyes never leave Dean’s.

“I was wondering the same about you.”

Dean shifts in his seat, watching Castiel. He can’t get a read on the guy.

“Why’s that?”

“You seem out of place here.”

“I could say the same about you, Castiel,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel huffs a laugh, “You could. I’ve never really belonged anywhere. I’ll move on when the time is right.”

Dean understood that feeling. Dean has never been one to assimilate into his surroundings. Not since before the fire. Not since his mom died. Sam has always been good at that. At adapting. Dean sticks out like a bright orange sock in a drawer full of white.

“And what do you do that allows for such a free wheelin’ lifestyle, Cass?”

Castiel tilts his head to the side, considering Dean for a moment, “I’m a doctor.”

“You look a little young for that.”

“I’m older than I appear,” Castiel says, “What do you do, Dean?”

“Mechanic,” Dean says, “Guess we’re both in the business of fixing things.”

“You more so than me. Outside the odd broken bone, my days are spent dealing with routine checks.”

“Maintenance. We do that too,” Dean says with a wink, “So what, you being in a place with a little more action?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate and definitive.

“Can’t say I blame you.”

The conversation finds a comfortable lull. Both of them pick at what’s left of Dean’s fries. He catches Castiel staring more than once out of the corner of his eye as he watches the TV. He can see this night going one of two ways. Considering the guy in front of him and the empty apartment overhead, Dean is leaning more one way than the other. He glances outside. The snow is coming down at a heavy clip.

“You live in town, Cass?”

“A few miles outside, actually.”

“It’s snowing pretty good out there.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I live in the apartment over the bar. I was thinking about grabbing some beer and moving this party upstairs.”

“OK.”

From the blank look, Castiel isn’t getting what Dean is trying to lay down. Dean shifts in his seat. He doesn’t usually have to work hard at picking someone up or getting himself picked up, depending on how the evening goes. A little subtly always goes a long way, but tonight it’s not going far enough. Dean leans in, a grin playing at his lips as Castiel follows suit.

“I was hoping you’d join me.”

“Oh,“ Castiel says, startled and floundering, eyes wide, “Oh, I’d — Yes, that sounds good.”

It takes everything he has not to laugh at Castiel. Considering how hot the guy is, Dean has a hard time believing he’s never been hit on.

“I’ll be back in two shakes,” Dean says, hopping up from his seat.

He gathers up his dishes and heads back to Franny, dropping them and the ketchup off. He asks Joe to grab him a case on his way through the bar.

“You need anything else, honey?”

“I’m good. Heading back upstairs,” Dean says.

“Have a good night, Dean. Be careful on those steps.”

“You be careful yourself.”

Dean walks back through, murmuring his goodbyes and thanking Joe as he grabs the case he’d sat on the bar. When he gets to Castiel, he motions for him to follow. The man falls into step behind him. Dean pushes the white painted door open, a gust of wind and snow taking his breath away. Wrapping his coat tighter around him, Dean and Castiel make their way up the stairs and into Dean’s apartment.

Flicking on the lights as he goes, Dean hangs up his coat, setting the beer on a nearby table as he bends to take off his boots. Castiel follows suit, minus the coat. He’s only wearing a blue sweater. The thing isn’t that thick, and Dean wonders how he can stand it out there without more layers. Just looking at him makes Dean cold, but Castiel seems unaffected. At least he doesn’t see him shaking or his teeth chattering.

“So...” Dean says, trailing off.

Castiel finishes taking off his shoes, sitting them next to Dean’s before straightening. He’s standing just inches from Dean. Castiel must have missed out on personal space lessons when he was a kid. Dean, however, did not miss those lessons and, despite that, he doesn’t back away.

“Beer?” Dean asks as he picks the 12-pack back up.

Castiel nods, still staring at Dean. It’s like the guy is searching him for something and not quite finding it. Like Dean is almost what he’s looking for, but he’s lacking somehow. He tries to ignore the disappointment he feels at the thought. Dean points Castiel towards the living room as he ducks into the kitchen. He puts the beer in the fridge, grabbing two out before following.

Dean watches as Castiel sits on the couch. He still looks out of place, like he’s having to try hard to appear normal. The amount of effort it seems to take for Castiel to try to blend in irks Dean for some reason. He’d rather he just be Castiel, even if that means upping the weirdness factor, because the guy can’t help but come off as being kind of an odd duck. Dean stifles a laugh as Castiel settles into the couch, placing his arms just so. It’s like watching someone sit outside waiting to be called in for a job interview, all nerves and conscious of every movement.

“Dude, relax,” Dean says, plopping down next to him.

He hands Castiel the bottle, their fingers brushing in the exchange.

“I am relaxed.”

“About as much as a guy with a stick up his ass can be.”

Castiel perks up at that, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He leans back into the couch instead of perching on the edge.

“Well, here’s to making new friends,” Dean says, raising his beer.

“And to keeping the old,” Castiel says, clinking the neck of his bottle against Dean’s before taking a drink.

Dean watches his Adam’s apple as Castiel takes a slow drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he finishes. The old Winchester charm should be kicking in right about now. They’ve already talked more than some of Dean’s longer running romances. He needed something clever or witty to get under this guy’s skin.

“How long have you been a doctor, Cass?”

Dean could kick himself as he settles in for 20 questions, round 2.

“In the usual sense? Not long,” Castiel says, pausing before continuing, “I was a soldier before this.”

“My dad was a marine. What branch were you in?”

“It was in a specialized unit.”

“CIA or FBI or something?”

Castiel chuckles, “No, nothing like that.”

“Mystery man, huh?”

Castiel doesn’t nod or shake his head. He keeps his eyes on Dean. Steady. Studying. The guy is weird. He’s awkward in a way that Dean should find off putting. Most people would. Still, Dean finds he enjoys having Castiel here. It’s comforting somehow.

Hours pass. They talk about themselves. Favorite foods, music, and movies. The normal getting to know you brand of conversation. Dean doesn’t know why he’s so interested or why he’s so shocked that Castiel seems to know his way around pop culture. Crashing in front of a TV for a movie marathon doesn’t seem like Castiel’s kind of thing. Then again, people would argue reading doesn’t seem to be Dean’s kind of thing and he reads all the time.

Dean even finds himself talking about Sam. Castiel tells his own stories, though there’s a feeling that he leaves the best parts out. It’s like reading an owner’s manual for a car. Yeah, the information is important, but it’s a hell of a lot more fun driving than looking at the diagrams. Castiel doesn’t talk about his family and mentions his time in as a soldier only in passing. Dean presses the issue when it comes to his life a doctor. He knows better than most to not push too hard when it comes to combat memories. Castiel does open up about some of his more trying cases. He talks about the people he’s watched die and the one’s he’s seen brought back to life.

“Some say they’ve experienced things.”

“Like an afterlife?”

“Yes, some have seen Heaven. Others say they’ve spoken to angels.”

“Any of the angels tell them what living in the celestial penthouse is like?” Dean asks, not even trying to hide his smirk, “Is it all burgers and strippers?”

Castiel considers him for a minute, “You don’t believe me.”

“A Heaven? Maybe. But fluffy white wings and halos kind of angels? Not for a second.”

“No, nothing like that,” Castiel says in a huff, almost offended, “I’m talking about real angels, Dean. Soldiers of God.”

“Come on, Cass. There’s no such thing. They’re like Santa and the Easter Bunny. They don’t exist.”

“How do you know?”

He wants to say because he’s a hunter and he knows a thing or two about a thing or two, but he can’t.

“I don’t know. There’s no documented evidence. No one’s ever seen one.”

“I have.”

Dean laughs him off, “Yeah, but you like the Stones better than Zeppelin. You can’t be trusted.”

“I never said I liked them better. I said I enjoy them just as much.”

“Angels still aren’t real.”

Castiel almost looks sad, “Why are you so unwilling to believe in the possibility?”

“I just don’t, all right?” Dean says, an edge to his voice as he pushes up out of his chair.

He moves towards one of the living room windows. Looking out, he can see the snow is even deeper. It has to be pushing upwards of a foot out there. The wind has picked up, blowing the flakes sideways. Visibility is awful. Dean can hardly see the houses across the street through the white blur.

He hears Castiel stand from the couch. His footsteps are muffled by the carpet, but the floor creaks underneath as he makes his way over to Dean. Standing as close as he is to the window, Dean can feel the frigid cold from the outside seeping through, chilling his face and his hands where they rest on the windowsill. His breath fogs the glass, obscuring his view outside as well as his reflection. He can still see Castiel though, when he comes to a stop behind him. Dean can see Castiel studying him as he puts a hand on his shoulder. Dean can feel the heat of it through his shirt. It burns down through his muscle, seeping into his bones.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push,” Castiel says, voice almost a whisper.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Are you always so damn argumentative?”

Castiel doesn’t respond. He stands there, a steadying presence. The warmth from his hand spreads through Dean, thawing the chill from the window. It’s a comfort Dean hasn’t often had. The fact that he likes it enough to think he could get used to it is terrifying.

Dean has been with more girls than guys, but either way he’s never been in a relationship. A real relationship. Something that lasts longer than a night or two. He’s never had the comfort of someone giving a damn because they care about you for more than whatever pleasure you can wring out of each other before going your separate ways.

Not that Castiel really cares. How could he? The guy has only been here for a few hours. Dean feels a firm squeeze on his shoulder. He feels Castiel standing close to him. Not pressing against him or anything, just the sense of being near. Somehow that feels more intimate than if the guy had grabbed Dean and started kissing him.

It’s getting late. The lights are already out downstairs, the glow no longer visible on the snow outside of their building. What houses Dean can see through the blizzard are all dark.

“You got something that can make it through that mess, Cass?”

“I do.”

“It looks nasty out there.”

“Do you want me to stay, Dean?”

Dean considers it. The question feels loaded, like it has more weight to it than it has any right to have. Like they’re teetering on the edge of something Dean doesn’t know or understand and his answer will decide whether they fall over out into nothing or take a step back into safety.

“Yes.”


End file.
